


Moving Forward

by rebelsquad (wolveheart)



Category: Our World War
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Author Cannot Believe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-25 01:19:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4941178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolveheart/pseuds/rebelsquad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What else are car rides good for but to start a conversation and get to know each other? (Or: five times Dease says something while they're driving that moves them forward, and one time he says something that makes them stop.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moving Forward

**Author's Note:**

> written for easybucky on tumblr who asked for dease/steele + [number of my choice](http://wolfandwildling.tumblr.com/post/130464143555/send-me-a-ship-and-one-of-these-and-ill-write-a) (and i chose "things you said while we were driving") (original post [here](http://wolfandwildling.tumblr.com/post/130576286660/for-easybucky-who-asked-for-deasesteele-number))

**           i. **

 

“Thanks for the ride.” 

It’s not just out of sheer politeness that he says it, closing the passenger side door and settling into the seat. Dease is genuinely grateful for his helpful neighbor, without whom he’d definitely come too late to work. He can’t afford that, not on a day when they’ve got an important project to finish.

His savior just turns the key in the ignition, then pulls out of the driveway with only one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding the last bite of his half burnt Nutella toast. 

Fred Steele has been Dease’s neighbor for three months now. They know each other as well as neighbors on the same floor of a three storey apartment building on the outskirts of a British city can get to know each other in such a short time. It mostly involves friendly greetings when they run into each other after work, just a quick “hello”, maybe a commiserating “Ms. Mallory’s cats didn’t let me sleep either”. 

Although, they’ve already reached the stage where they address each other by their names, and there’s a certain feeling whenever Dease sees the other man. Their meetings are always short, but somehow they occupy Dease’s mind a little longer than they should be. Like a footprint on the beach that’s a little deeper than the others so it takes longer until the ocean waves have smoothed it out again.

And yet Steele didn’t think twice when Dease had asked whether he could drive him to work since his bike had a flat tire. All Steele had done was bite into his yet uneaten toast and keep it between his teeth so he could fill his coffee into a travel mug and put on his cowboy hat. To get his car keys, however, he’d had to hand his mug to Dease, who’s still holding it now, thanks to the absence of a cup holder.

Dease adjusts his messenger bag on his lap as they leave their street, joining other cars on their way to the city centre.

“If you want me to reimburse you by giving you petrol money or something, just tell me how much,” he adds a bit belatedly to his words of gratitude. 

Steele spares him a quick, amused glance, swallowing down his last mouthful of toast. “Just invite me over for a beer, that’ll do.”

Smiling back slightly, Dease nods. “I can do that.”

“I count on it.” 

Without a warning, Steele takes his mug out of Dease’s hand to take sip of his coffee. When their hands brush, Dease catches himself paying close attention to the details, to the contact of rough skin on his, to the sudden loss of warmth in his hand. Instead of the weight in his hand, Dease now feels the uncertain sense of importance that this split second seems to carry. It’s over in the blink of an eye but for some inexplicable reason, it becomes the only thought in Dease’s mind.

He tries to snap out of it by looking around the car in the hope of finding something distracting enough, something that’ll give him more clues on who this man next to him - who so readily left his breakfast table for him - is. 

Maybe it’s a good thing that traffic seems to slow down with every metre they get closer to the city centre. What else are car rides good for but to start a conversation and get to know each other? 

 

**           ii. **

 

Steele picks him back up after work that day so Dease doesn’t have to take the subway and walk the half hour from the station to their house.

It’s been an exhausting day and neither of them are much in the mood to talk but the silence that fills the car doesn’t feel right either and Dease is glad when Steele turns on the radio with a quick motion.

That is, until he realizes that it’s tuned in to the local country station and Steele makes no move to change it. The opposite, in fact. He starts humming along, bobbing his head slightly in time to the music. His head that is still - or rather again - sporting that ridiculous cowboy hat.

“You serious?” Dease asks with raised eyebrows, incredulity clear in his voice. When Steele turns to him with a questioning look, movement of his head unceasing, Dease first points at the radio, then at the hat.

Steele grins. “Problem, mate? My car, my rules. I’m not letting the guy who owns a bike instead of a car judge my taste in music.”

“It’s good for my health and the environment,” Dease says, almost automatically.

This time, Steele outright laughs. “Yeah, right. It’s inconvenient, is what it is. Good thing you got me, eh? A friendly neighbor to help you out of your self-chosen misery. Lucky you.” His attention is needed back on the road as a red Ford unexpectedly switches into their lane. Steele lets out a string of curses, and Dease isn’t sure whether Steele hears his mumbled “I don’t believe in luck”, much less his added “good to have you indeed”.

 

**           iii. **

 

“Is this what you want to do all winter? Have breakfast in your car so you can drive me to work?” Dease fastens his seatbelt, listening to the rain pattering against the windshield. Like the last few days, he doesn’t mind holding Steele’s coffee mug, is grateful for it, in fact. He forgot to bring gloves since he doesn’t have to ride his bike, and now his hands are a bit too exposed to the coldness in the car. The heating hasn’t warmed it up yet from its night out in the chilly October air.

“Sure will,” Steele replies easily, pulling out of the driveway in an impressive display of skill as he juggles steering wheel, gear shift and toast. “My boss has already given me words of praise for my newly found punctuality. ‘sides, better this than having to nurse you back to health after you get sick from this god-awful weather.”

“You don’t think we could use a little sick and nursing time for finishing ‘Star Wars’?” With a quirk of his lips, Dease fondly remembers the last two evenings spent on his couch, sipping beers and sharing a bowl of chips. It’s been two months since he’d first invited Steele over to thank him for the act of kindness. By now, Dease’s motives are a little different, aren’t quite so simple anymore. (He’s unwilling to put a label on them, not yet, not when he’s still unsure of what exactly it is that he’s feeling.)

When his gaze flits over to Steele, he finds the other man’s eyes already on him.

Then, Steele smirks. “You’re hardly bearable when you’re not sneezing and coughing everywhere. I don’t need the additional agony.”

Dease snorts ungracefully, breaking the eye contact. “Don’t kid yourself, Fred. I’m a joy to be around, and you damn right know it.”

Instead of commenting on that, Steele shakes his head, his eyes back on the road. The twitch of his lips, just shy of a smile, tells Dease he wasn’t completely wrong.

 

**           iv. **

 

Dease doesn’t know what hurts more: the bootprint-sized spot on his ribcage or the press of a packet of frozen peas against the left side of his face. Watching the way Steele’s hands have the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip is definitely not helping. Neither is the oppressive silence in the car, only interrupted every now and then by Godley’s snoring on the backseat. At least no one’s bleeding. Dease isn’t sure whether Steele would forgive him or Godley for getting bloodstains on the upholstery.

A car passes them by, its headlights casting eerie shadows on Steele’s face, making his clenched jaw stand out even more. Dease wonders if the line between ‘anger’ and ‘fury’ has been crossed, but his head hurts too much, feels too fuzzy for contemplating such details. All he knows is that he hates this. They don’t fight like this; they understand each other too well for that. And even if there is something one of them is genuinely irritated by, they talk about it like reasonable adults, and that’s that. 

Dease has never seen his friend this upset, and he’s never found himself being the source of it.

“In my defense,” he begins, voice low so as not to startle Steele or wake up Godley, “I didn’t plan on getting into a fight. All I wanted to do was -”

“I get it,” Steele interrupts briskly, eyes firmly on the road ahead. “I know you can’t help yourself when you think someone needs your help. But fuck -” He inhales sharply, visibly trying to loosen his hands around the steering wheel.

With a patience he didn’t think he had, Dease waits for the rest of the sentence that’ll hopefully contain some explanation so his head can stop trying to figure this out on its own and give him a headache.

Steele takes a few more breaths. His knuckles become less prominent, a bit of tension leaves his shoulders. 

“Just be careful, alright?” he finally says, when Dease almost given up hope on ever receiving a reply. “I know it’s probably gonna happen again, but I don’t want to get a call from the hospital asking me to identify your beat up body.”

Steele’s still not looking at anything but the road, but finally understanding dawns on Dease. 

There’s a part of him that wants to make a quip about how he can hold his own, that he isn’t a fragile, inexperienced bureaucrat just because he has to wear suits to work and enjoys ironing his shirts. It feels too cheap and inappropriate though. This is clearly important to Steele, or he wouldn’t be so torn up about it. 

Instead, Dease reaches out with his free hand to briefly touch the side of Steele’s neck, the curve where neck meets stubbly cheek. The contact lasts for a second, maybe two, but it’s enough for the rest of the fight to leave Steele’s body. Dease takes it as sign to pull his hand back. 

“I’ll try,” he says quietly into the silence that doesn’t feel as suffocating anymore.

 

**           v. **

 

The alcohol in Dease’s blood makes him comfortably warm and cosy and before he’s thought twice about it, he’s pulled up his feet so he can properly curl up on the passenger seat. Ignoring Steele’s protests that he should at least take off his dirty shoes, he leans against the door with his back despite the seatbelt. It puts him at a 90 degree angle that gives him the perfect opportunity look at Steele from under half-lidded eyes.

“What,” Steele demands. His head turns towards Dease, who honest to god giggles. 

“What?” he repeats, this time sounding more questioning and there’s a hint of disbelieving amusement in his voice. He keeps looking back and forth between Dease and the road, waiting for the answer that takes a while to form in Dease’s booze-slowed brain.

“I really… really… like your face,” Dease finally slurs, his own face brightened up by a lazy grin.

“Christ,” Steele huffs, “you’re fuckin’ hammered, aren’t you?” 

Dease can’t be sure if his friend’s face really does soften, or if it’s just the general influence of too many drinks that causes everything to become a little blurred.

“Hey,” he says, dragging out the vowels. “Di… did you know that you’re my favorite person?” With his right foot he nudges Steele, punctuating the last two words.

Batting the foot away, Steele tries to keep the car steady.

“What the fuck, mate? I’m just trying to get us home in one piece.” He steals a glance at his inebriated passenger, as if he didn’t know that Dease is still looking at him. “I’m trying to get your drunk ass home and you’re kicking me instead of saying thanks. What happened to ‘let me invite you over for a beer and a movie’?”

Dease’s smile dims a little and with as much seriousness as he can muster, he says, “This time. This time I’d make a candle light dinner. With like. Romantic music. All proper. Woo you.” The last part makes him lose all semblance of sobriety again as he dissolves into chuckles. He closes his eyes, feeling the contentedness and sleepiness of a drunk wash over him.

“Fuck, Maurice,” is the last thing he hears Steele sigh, “you can’t just say these things when you won’t remember them in the morning.” 

Dease is sure he dreams it.

 

**           + i. **

 

For New Year’s Eve, Dease’s parents have invited him to fly over to Ireland and spend a week with them, since he didn’t get the chance to do so during Christmas. He agrees happily, although there’s a slight pang of guilt and disappointment that he won’t be watching the fireworks with his… neighbor? Friend? What do you call someone you have more than platonic feelings for but neither of you have ever truly acknowledged or acted on them?

Steele insists on driving him to the airport in a futile attempt to prolong their time together and make up for what they’re going to miss. 

It’s only for a week but the silence in the car speaks volumes. It’ll feel longer for both of them.

As usual, there comes the moment when Dease realizes that he’s been staring at Steele for a while, taking in the intelligent eyes focussed on the road, the familiar curve of lips, the sure hands on the steering with their calloused fingers that Dease has felt during fleeting touches that had never been quite enough. His gaze returns to the lips, chapped from the dry, artificially heated air.

“You know, I’ve always wondered what it’d be like to kiss you.” It’s out before he can stop himself, and after the initial shock has passed he finds he doesn’t mind. They’d been moving towards this, he’s sure of it. It was only a matter of time. 

To Steele’s credit, the car makes only a minimal swerve to the right. 

“Seriously? You wanna do this now?” Steele’s complaining is half-hearted, like he’s been aware of the inevitability as well.

Dease shrugs, eyes still on Steele. “Now’s as good as any time.”

When Steele laughs it’s bordering on hysterical, and he shakes his head firmly. “No, it’s really fucking not.”

“Why not?” Dease asks, one eyebrow raised inquisitively. For some reason, the impending separation makes him bolder than he’s been during the past three months. There’s also the knowledge that it’s too late to turn back now; the words are out there and if they don’t have this talk now, this so far unspoken thing between them will always stay there and keep them distanced.

“Maybe because I’m fucking driving?” Steele spits out the last word like a particularly bitter fruit. “You realize you won’t find out what it’s like for as long as I have to keep my eyes on the damn road and my hands on the goddamn wheel.”

Dease grins. “If that’s the only problem, then just stop fucking driving.”

With a mumble that sounds suspiciously like “crazy bastard, why do I like you,” Steele does as told.

 

(If Dease arrives at his gate breathless and with his hair decidedly more dishevelled than when he left his flat two hours ago, he doesn’t care.)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
